I don't know about you, but a universe run by either Kasabian or Queensryche seems like it would be a pretty fucked-up place - unless I get to be a biker scout, bounty hunter, or bounty-hunting biker scout* that is; in which case, okay.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

I presume that the majority of Psychedelic Kimchi's readership is familiar -if only in passing- with Billy Ocean's Loverboy because if you're reading this blog, you're probably into shit like Billy Ocean -if only by definition- but while the song may ring a few bells, you may have forgotten the utterly absurd, arguably nonsensical video that accompanied it some twenty-five years ago.

Ignoring the obvious fact of the video being a total rip-off of Star Wars and the Mos Eisley Cantina, let's discuss the messages conveyed within its celluloid folds. To be candid, I don't put much stock in the everything has a message! ideology favored by some but nevertheless, let's pretend that Loverboy contains lessons to be learned, shall we?

1) Billy Ocean not-so-secretly yearns to be Han Solo. Fair enough, Billy. I mean, who hasn't wanted to be, or be like Han Solo at some point in his or her life?

2) Smitten by a girl/woman/lady/female/alien of potentially compatible sex? Fill her companion with a hot bolt of plasma (not a metaphor) and drag the lady off. And just remember guys: if she resists, slap her around a little because...

3) Deep down, females wish to be dominated. Seriously, watch the portion near the end again and tell me she doesn't jump up on that horse willingly.*

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Unlike people, songs with the same name never seem to get along very well. You won't find songs playing pool, shooting hoops, vandalizing public property, attending potlucks, volunteering at soup kitchens, etc. anytime soon because that's not how songs roll. If anything, songs with the same name are inclined to settle disputes in classic Bartertown fashion and I, for one, applaud the finality of such approaches because notions of due process, justice, and compassion are grand in theory yet there comes a time when you have to make a deal with Tina Turner or get your hulking, mentally-challenged underling killed, leaving you a slave in the methane refinery.*

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

You're a 100-meter tall monster coming in from outer space to wreak havoc on Earth for Christmas but you're on a tight schedule and only have enough time to raze a single city. The question, then, is which one?

(in no particular order)

Los Angeles - And really, why not? People are afraid to merge on the freeway -or so it has been written- and now they'll be merging with your foot. Ten years from now, they'll make a movie about your exploits starring Matt Damon as the voice of the monster, Demi Moore as its love interest, and Samuel L. Jackson as its lawyer.

Ilsan - Consider it a mercy killing of the Slow Mutants, as that infectious menace has to be stopped before it's too late.*

Tokyo - Label it a matter of tradition, custom, heritage or hell, steak and potatoes but the reality is this: if you're gonna do Earth, Tokyo is the standard by which all else is measured.

New York - Amongst other things, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man needs to be avenged, as do King Kong, Jason Voorhees, the Beast (from 20,000 fathoms), Frank Zito, various Gremlins (genius, spider, cheese burrito, etc.) and Quetzalcoatl.

Seoul - Hey, this isPsychedelic Kimchi after all, and besides, if all those atrocious advertising campaigns have taught us anything over the years, it's that Korea deserves a slice of the intergalactic-monster pie.

London - You've been itching for a rematch against Christopher Lee and the Queen Mum for quite some time now** and the opportunity to shove Big Ben up Rowan Atkinson's ass is merely icing on the cake.

Shanghai - The world needs to fully recognize China's role as superpower-in-training and what better way to celebrate its emergence than with a good old fashioned curb stomp? There's bound to be a few fireworks factories around, too, so it's not as if the affair will be anything less than festive.

Toronto - Oddly enough, this is the only city actively petitioning its own destruction, as the inevitable, catastrophic level of devastation is seen as reasonable sacrifice for the chance of one-upping the United States. Considering that you've always wanted to 'go GTA' on the GTA, it's a win-win situation.

*For those seeking more information on Ilsan, see also: Morlocks and then: C.H.U.D.s
** And this time, it's personal!
*** Which is what I tell toddlers as I creep toward them wearing a bear suit with broken glass instead of teeth and claws replaced by ceramic knives.

Thursday, December 01, 2011

I
show up at Allison’s Blood of Christmas Party sometime after
eight with Eoin and Jessie, the former having done a hit of acid and the latter
only slightly buzzed from a six-dollar bottle of wine, the name of which I
can’t recall because I’ve taken two Xanax alongside three bottles of Smirnoff
Ice and driving Eoin’s Kia Sportage is serious business so I need to take it
easy. Allison’s house is a Victorian-style joint located on the corner of some
street in Marion, the name of which I can’t remember either and I had to park a
block away since there’s nowhere else convenient, though when we neared the
house I couldn’t help but notice several viable, unoccupied spots nearby. At
the door we’re each handed two packs of Marlboros, one full-flavored and the
other menthol by a guy named Jeremy who always seems cool enough to me, not so
much to Jessie because he greets me by saying “Hey, it’s Jessie’s girl!” as he
hands me the cigarettes. I think it’s quite funny and tell him I don’t smoke
anymore, but am told that it’s a theme of the party and somebody may ask me for
one later.

“He
used that joke the last time we saw him” Jessie says once we’re past him,
speaking to me, I guess, even though I’m looking away from her and don’t bother
responding. The Killers’ When You Were Young blares out from
the speakers which is also cool, although I do recall
Allison having once informed me that the Killers suck. I disagree but it’s not
as if I’m going to call her out on it. Most of the living room has been cleared
out, with only a sofa, two wooden chairs and a Christmas tree placed beside the
dormant fireplace. The tree has been spray-painted entirely red, deep red and
completely lacking in ornamentation. I wonder why there’s a Christmas party the
day after Thanksgiving, but whatever, I can dig it.

There
are people everywhere but I don’t know most of them. Beside the Christmas tree
stands Denzel and two Japanese women, a pair of twins, one passing the biggest
joint I’ve ever seen in my life to the other. They’re university students, or
so Eoin says, which is odd considering that there isn’t a university in town
and before I can inquire further he’s over there with them, chatting it up and
taking hits. With an Australian accent that could melt butter, Denzel asks
about the whereabouts of Eoin’s psychotic soon-to-be ex-wife. Eoin informs the
trio that she’s been left at home with a bottle of Captain Morgan. The twins
giggle in unison and say, again in unison, that Eoin is funny, their accents
decidedly less enticing. I’ve nothing against the Japanese, but those girls’
matching outfits -pink miniskirts, lavender halter tops and maroon platform
shoes- are idiotic.

“Macie!”
Allison shouts, strolling over to me wearing this amazing snow-white leather
jacket adorned with numerous buttons and zippers. I’m instantly, insanely
jealous of her attire but smile anyways, if only because she’s the best host in
town. She holds a bottle of Coors Light in one hand, half empty. “Got a
cigarette, you bitch?” she asks, also smiling, so I remove the plastic from the
pack of menthols and open the box. Allison waves it away, noting that she only
smokes Turkish Silvers, which confuses me because it’s
her party and the rules dictate that people carry
Christmas-colored Marlboros. I put the pack back into my purse. “Did you know
my brother is graduating in December?” she quizzes me.

“Do
people actually graduate in December?” I respond, playing dumb for the sake of
conversation. She scrunches her face.

“Nine
semesters is the norm these days.” She says this with something like disdain,
though not for me. I’m pretty sure her brother is in his late thirties.
“Anyway, there’s plenty of beer in the kitchen, so help yourself,” she says,
already drifting away from me. “Just a so you know, don’t come to me about the
Ice 101. I can’t deal with that right now” is the last thing I hear before her
voice carries over into a greeting for someone else. I like her style. I’ve
lost track of Jessie and gazing behind me, I spot her arguing about something,
arms folded, with Jeremy, who seems pleased with the situation. An unrecognized
guy wearing a fedora and brown sport jacket checks Jeremy out as the two resolve their supposed dispute. I work my way through the crowd to chat with Kelli and
her husband, Will, who leans against the wall looking as though he’s blitzed
out of his mind. They’re wearing matching holiday-themed sweaters adorned with
reindeer patterns. My watch says it’s twenty-two minutes till nine.

“Hey,
Macie,” Kelli greets me with a desperate sense of inclusion in her words. “Can
you hold Will’s beer for a minute?”

“Sure,”
I say, which of course means that I should drink it before Will realizes I’ve
done so. “What’s up?” Nothing too serious is ever up with
these two, but still.

“Will
said I have wonderful breasts, but I’m not sure if he’s being serious,” she
laments. Will, eyes bleary, appears flabbergasted by her statement.

“I
don’t doubt his sincerity, Kelli. They’re incredible. I’d kill for a chest like
that.” Not entirely true. I’m perfectly content with my own but readily
acknowledge that Kelli’s breasts are the size of watermelons and if I were
attracted to other women, most assuredly just as sweet.

“Then
why did do that body shot off of Leann?” she responds, almost whispering.
Awkward moment. I take a swig from Will’s bottle of Budweiser, then another.

Will
throws his free arm up in frustration, waving it around at no one in
particular. “It was a body shot, honey, not anal sex.” Second awkward moment. I
take a third swig. From the look in her eyes, I gather that Kelli isn’t
terribly upset by her husband’s drunken act. Same old, same old. Out of the
blue, Nick emerges from the adjoining kitchen and strides up to us.

“That
stupid bitch wouldn’t give me a shot,” he spits out angrily. Sometimes Nick’s
intensity is enthralling but I get the impression this isn’t one of those
times. I excuse myself and make my way over to Denzel’s posse, which now
includes Amber, an infectiously-friendly blonde social worker currently holding
a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to her lips. She swallows, hisses, and passes the
bottle to Eoin, who is usually part of my posse but in truth
runs in most everyone’s posse. Eoin takes more than one gulp.

“Yes,
Eoin. Yes!” Denzel proclaims, accompanied by the echo of Japanese giggling.
Eoin coughs, wipes his mouth and hands the bottle to me. I pause, ponder aloud
that I’m the designated driver, and then proceed to school the lot of them.
Cheers ensue, including my own. Hanging above the mantel is an acrylic painting
that depicts a naked woman with auburn hair grasping a stick of dynamite in her
left hand. In her right, the woman clasps the tail of a dachshund bearing an
outrageously oversized, erect penis. I have to, just have to ask. Denzel claims
it was a gift to Allison by someone wishing to encapsulate her personality. I’m
spellbound by that revelation, momentarily, until I convince myself it’s
probably true and accept the fact that if I think about it too much, my brain
will explode. The two Japanese girls are smoking cigarettes all of a sudden, as
is Eoin.

“Where’s
my sister?” Eoin asks.

“Sarah?
She’s upstairs, pretending to get along with the coke-heads ‘cause they’re
watching the Willow: Special Edition DVD,” Amber informs
him.

“You
know, I’ve never seen Willow,” Eoin comments, and immediately thereafter you
spot a glazed look of whatever passes for disdain in crowds such as these form
within the Japanese girls’ eyes. “Ever since I saw it in the theater, I mean,”
Eoin continues, eager to obscure the veracity of his previous statement. “I
can’t watch a movie that good on a small screen, after all.” The girls seem
pleased. “But hold on. Cocaine?”

“Like
I said, pretending,” Amber counters, as if someone can
pretend to do cocaine.

“Gotcha,”
says Eoin, as if someone can pretend to enjoy Willow. He takes another hit from
the still-bulbous joint.

Having
downed the remainder of Will’s bottle of beer, I pop another Xanax and elbow my
way through to the kitchen, eager to get another drink.
Shit, I think, reprimanding myself for entering the Mos
Eisley cantina so carelessly. A necessary evil, I suppose, but even so.

What
I behold in the sizable kitchen is as follows: Leann kicking the shit out of a
not-so-empty case of Coors for -from what I gather via her obscenity-laden
tirade- having the audacity to get in her way; Brian simultaneously checking
his smartphone for messages as he halfheartedly attempts to calm Leann down;
Nathan making a pastrami and Gouda sandwich even though there are numerous
sandwiches already made while his wife, Hayley, cheers Leann on; Andrew -not to
be mistaken for Andy, who has been missing for some time now- acting as if he’s
removing the cap from a bottle of Budweiser with his left eye socket, much to
the amazement of Miles, who you haven’t seen since shortly after high school;
and the woman with the tricolored hair, Megan -not to be confused with Meaghan,
Nick’s girlfriend who, when last seen, was busy admiring Allison’s coat- sits
cross-legged atop the mahogany dining table, surrounded by open bags of Doritos
and a plate of sandwiches, mouthing selected lyrics from Dawn of the
Dead by Does It Offend You, Yeah? which pours out from the speakers
in the other room.

Like
the dead that walked before me, therein Megan silently imitates,
almost gleefully, clutching the translucent bottle of Ice 101 with scraggy
fingers, more like claws than anything else.

“Chill
the fuck out, Leann,” Brian says, an utter lack of conviction in his voice,
still sending a text to someone, probably Melanie, his girlfriend, who is in
the other room.

“...Motherfucking...fuck...fucker...”
Leann mumbles, ignoring him. I find it best to let Leann work out her
frustrations on her own time and thus say nothing, inching my way toward Nathan
and Hayley instead.

“You
should try one of those sandwiches, Macie,” Nathan offers, and I’m tempted to
accept his invitation.

“You
know it.” She opens the fridge without hesitation and hands me a can of
Sapporo, just how I like it. I remind myself to send her a Christmas card.

“It
wasn’t the best Thanksgiving for Leann, you know,” Megan says, a faint smirk on
her face. She lights a cigarette. Megan’s wearing a faded red zip-up hoodie
with an emerald-green tee shirt underneath. Very Christmasy. The hoodie has
several small holes, punctures really, in the neckline and hood itself. I make
a mental note to ask her about it sometime soon. “She had a fight with her
boyfriend, the usual, hadn’t anyone to spend time with, wound up eating Chinese
food with me at Hy-Vee.”

“Don’t
they sell more traditional food at Hy-Vee?” I ask.

“How
was it?” Miles inquires, seemingly oblivious to not having seen me in nearly
eight years. Megan shrugs, and I haven’t the foggiest idea as to which question
she’s addressing.

“It
was great,” Leann comments, having exhausted herself. The mangled box is
leaking from one of its corners, so she kicks it off to the side. “Fucking
awesome, in fact.”

“Thanks.
I think it’s the Gouda which-” but Nathan’s alcohol-fueled sandwich soliloquy
is interrupted by Leann smashing the sandwich with her fist. One, two, three
slams, leaving the item crushed and deformed. She then storms out of the room,
saying nothing. Nathan picks it up, sniffs it, takes a bite. “Still good!” he
announces triumphantly.

Awkward
silence. Megan takes a gulp of the schnapps, swallows, exhales smoke which
billows out like she’s on fire internally. Miles expresses astonishment at
Andrew’s previous act, rather delayed because he’s ripped on Ecstasy. Someone
laughs, not sure who. Melanie appears and subsequently drags Brian out of the
kitchen. Coincidentally, Arcade Fire’s Ready to Start begins
playing and Megan taps the bottle of Ice 101 against the table in
correspondence with the opening drum beat. My watch informs me that it’s six
minutes after nine.

Upstairs, in a bedroom,
people are watching a movie; Willow, I think, since Val
Kilmer’s interacting with a midget. Some guy snorts a line of coke off of what
I presume to be his boyfriend’s exposed stomach with a rolled-up five-dollar
bill. Sarah’s explaining -rather eloquently as a trickle of blood seeps out
from her left nostril- that this is Ron Howard’s best film to date. I’m
inclined to disagree, given that Kevin Bacon looked so hot in Apollo
13 but remain silent on the issue, instead mentioning that Eoin is looking
for her. She says he can come upstairs if he’s so concerned, to which I counter
that there’s a solid chance he would get lost on the way up. Sarah shrugs, as
do I. We sit together, watching Willow for a while, discussing the merits of
Kevin Pollack’s performance as one of the gnomes or whatever he’s supposed to
be. At some point, Jessie appears, wearing a lampshade as a hat, and passes me
a glass of something. Taking a drink, I deduce that it’s gin mixed with Busch
Light, loathe it, then take another sip. The two guys are making out and
Sarah places a copy of The Dark Crystal upon the exposed
disc tray. Jessie tells me I need to come downstairs, so I
do.

Downstairs,
Andrew -not magic-trick Andrew but the one who owns a Mercedes- and his wife
Jasmine are robot-dancing to Bryan Adams’ I Need Somebody
and I join in the festivities. I’m pretty sure they’re sober. At the song’s
conclusion, everyone cheers except for Eoin, as he’s busy getting fresh with the Christmas tree. The twins’ tops have disappeared, leaving only
sparkly bras between what Denzel has seen before and what he’ll see again soon
enough. Nick’s arguing with Allison.

“Hey,
it’s a party, man. Don’t hassle the host.” Nick can’t deny the logic of her
answer so he heads over to Will and Kelli, who, I note, continue to struggle with the body shot off of Leann, which is
weird because Leann’s standing beside Kelli, admonishing Will for his
inappropriate behavior. Brutal.

Some
lady begins talking to me, telling me how she’s turned her life around and is
now an accountant. I keep asking what her name is and she keeps reminding me
that she’s Heather, Heather Robbins and we went to high school together but I
haven’t the slightest idea who that is and thus, at some point, keep nodding my
head till she wanders away in disgust. I feel bad, finish my drink, and check
my watch. It’s ten thirty-three.

I
step outside for a moment, ostensibly to get some fresh air but the truth is
that I don’t want everyone to see me smoking, for on some level it hurts to
admit the resurgence of a publicly-denounced habit even though no one really
gives a damn. It’s unseasonably warm
for late November and the patio is a welcome sight. I light a menthol
cigarette, inhale, and study the colors on the box whence it came.

“Knowing
you, the question of my attire is inevitable, and I wanted to save you the
trouble of having to ask. I got hit in the face with a shotgun blast, though at
considerable distance, mind you, and structural deficiencies notwithstanding,
I’m quite fond of this hoodie, so...” she trails off, which, knowing her, isn’t
surprising.

“Yeah,
maybe,” she replies in that whimsically corrosive tone of hers which only
succeeds in ruffling my feathers. I flick my unfinished cigarette into the lawn, thoroughly repulsed by it all. Before
I can open the door, she posits that I could always ask Eoin
about the incident but it wouldn’t matter anyway since
everyone’s a liar when the response displeases me, right? I
suggest she do something about that dye-job of hers as the blue, white, and
red was charming at first -in its own clownish way- but as her hair grows out,
it looks as if someone has smeared shit across the top of her head. I also tell
her to go fuck herself, to which she begins laughing that cancerous hyena laugh
of hers, the one I’ve come to loathe irrevocably.

Inside,
the lights have gone out, supplanted by shifting shades of green
and red produced by numerous strings of Christmas
lights taped to the ceiling and I want to kick myself for not having noticed
them earlier. Some jazz rendition of Nirvana’s Smells like Teen
Spirit plays a bit too loudly for comfort and the guy with the fedora
has lost his pants somehow, somewhere yet doesn’t seem to mind, nor does anyone else. Jill emerges
from the crowd and hands me a vodka tonic. I thought
she was pregnant, I say, and she says something about being pregnant two years
ago and I can’t deal with this right now so I sashay over to Denzel but now the
twins’ skirts have disappeared, too, leaving them in nothing more than lingerie
and platform shoes and I can’t deal with this either so I look for Nathan and Haley
but Kelli informs me they’ve gone home since they have kids and it’s not until
she stops speaking that I notice Kelli isn’t sitting on the couch itself but,
rather, upon Will’s knee with Leann perched atop the other and I’m all like what the fuck? so I head into the kitchen only to see Andrew
-the blonde one, not the married one- attempting to teach Miles some kind of
joint lock and I don’t want any part of it, opting instead to grab a can of
Sapporo from the fridge even though I have yet to finish the vodka tonic but
polish it off once Miles starts talking about amateur blacksmithing because I can’t handle a discussion of such magnitude and thus grab a second
can of Sapporo for the long walk away but Nick stalls my retreat by asking
about the Ice 101; I tell him to let it go because I know the more intoxicated
he gets, the more likely that bottle is to be smashed against
his skull but he’s not the type to listen so
whatever, right? and he’s screaming at me as I hastily
exit the kitchen, which
is where I collide with Brian, who isn’t looking ahead
of himself because he’schecking
that goddamn phone; he apologizes, is immediately forgiven -even if being sorry
doesn’t remove the sting of going unnoticed- and gets out of my way so I can
find Eoin, who is grinding with Allison to Toni Basil's Mickey but upon interrogation, he silently examines me as if checking to
make sure all of my limbs and digits are still intact while Allison shouts at
me for ruining the host’s fun till she
tears up, gives me a hug, and thanks me for coming to the party but I’m
unable to respond because I can’t deal with
any of this right now.

Upstairs, the guys have disappeared
and Sarah’s watching The Wrestler alone. The blood stain
beneath her nose remains, looking as fresh as ever and she’s raving about
Mickey Rooney’s amazing performance like I haven’t seen the film already and I
should correct her but don’t since another Xanax has just been popped and the thought
of Mickey Rooney as the titular wrestler is pretty funny. Crawling into bed, my
hand runs across a patch of something gooey and while its scent leaves little
to the imagination I feel just fine, for it’ll be dry by the time I wake up and besides, sleep comes easily when I stare at televisions without paying attention.